It's been a year since I've heard my brother's voice. The days have simultaneously crawled along and zoomed by. I no longer wake up in the morning and for the first few seconds feel as if he's alive, then get the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that he's not. At least not every morning.
It's important not to stop. Not to think. Don't think about the bad, sometimes even the good. Don't think. Because then it becomes real. Then I have to remember. I have to remember that I no longer have my brother with me on this earth. I have to remember that I'll never hear his voice again.
But I'm not suppressing. I'm not pushing it away. I've done my opening up to friends, family, strangers, counselors. I've discussed everything. I've been to the therapy sessions and cried so much I felt dry inside. But it still doesn't change the fact that my brother is gone. It doesn't hurt any less to relive that day over and over and over again. It doesn't change that 20 years with my big brother was not enough time. Not nearly enough. I still cry the same. My heart aches just the same. No amount of time or talking will change that.
But I'm not trying to forget. I'm just trying to not remember. I don't want to think about how at one point I was completely and entirely happy, and how I'll never feel that way again. I've come to terms with it. And that's not to say I'll never be happy again. Because I will. I am. But not like that. Not the same. Not ever.
But I push forward. I march on. I don't think. Because when I think I get the bad thoughts again, the ones that sent me to counseling in the first place. If I don't think, I live. And I have to live. I need to. I have to carry the torch. I have to warm the hearts that never got to feel his. I want to.
I testified as a character witness for my brother in court.
"He was sunshine," I said. "He was that glow, that warmth, that feel-good."
He still is.
It's been one year. One long and quick year. And it's only the beginning.
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